


those dreams of ours

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Series: lost in orbit [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mary isn't a bitch, Panic Attacks, Pining Sherlock, Post Reichanbach, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slight Canon Divergence, There will always be angst, Unrequited Love, richard siken everybody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There should be just one safe place</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the world. I mean</em>
</p><p> <em>This world. People fall down and stay </em></p><p>  <em>down and I don't like</em></p><p>  <em>the way the song goes. </em></p><p>They're holding hands and John is holding a cup of coffee in one hand and he looks older, paler, care-worn. He looks <em>sad. </em>He's smiling in the picture, though, smiling at Mary and Sherlock decides <em>jealousy </em>is too petty a word to articulate what he is feeling now; this all consuming, burning urge to rip the photograph in two and fourths and eighths until the evidence that John Watson doesn't care anymore for him is in bits and pieces at his feet. <em>He smiles at me like that, </em>he thinks. <em>That-that smile—that should be for me. Not for you. You scarcely know him at all. Not like I do.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	those dreams of ours

_He was not dead yet, not exactly-_

_Parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting_

_For something to happen, something grand—_

 

***

There's a hole in the roof, and it's leaking all over Sherlock's face.

The water is cold and icy and if he had any concern at all for his health he'd move out of the way. But he lays there and let's that cold, icy water drip, drip, drip, cling to his eyelashes and slid down his chin until it feels like he's crying. He's not even sure if he is. Rainwater mixes with salty tears and Sherlock turns over and shivers and shivers.

There's ink on his hands. Papers strewn over the floor. It's cheap ink, stolen and a sort of bluish purple and it takes a long time to dry because it's mainly water. But it gets the words right enough and

_John I keep thinking about you and it hurts_

And

_I think I might be dying_

And

_It's not really possible for a heart to break but_

Outside it continues to rain.

Sherlock looks at the paper in his hand and wonders when everything will stop hurting. The syringe rolls from his palm and he burns and burns.

**_OoO_ **

_But it isn't always about me,_

_He keeps saying, though he's talking about the only heart he knows—_

_Boys on the bed, strange sheets_

**_OoO_ **

He doesn't relish killing people.

At least not until after they're dead, and he's holding the gun in his hands and there is  _satisfaction_ and  _peace_ and it feels like he's done something useful after a long, long time.

There is blood on his hands and he's used to blood, he's experimented on blood and he's had more wounds than he could count, but not like this, it's never been quite like this...

...it feels good.

John would have been disgusted, but John is far away and John doesn't have to know that Sherlock doesn't mind feeling numb, because once he starts  _feeling_ again his heart is going to tear open and he might never stop screaming. He doesn't remember becoming this person, this person who can't really feel anything anymore.

**OoO**

_The way the phone rings in the other room,_

_Like that, the way it has of ringing, ringing._

**_oOo_ **

The man behind him is gripping his hips so hard it hurts, Sherlock can feel bruises forming, blue and purple and red painted across the canopy of his skin. It doesn't really matter. It feels good. It feels like he's being split in two but it's good because it scatters the thoughts in his mind, if only for a few moments. The man behind him bites into his neck while he fucks him and Sherlock groans, low and deep and closes his eyes and imagines John. John doesn't have to know, doesn't have to know about the filthy, pornographic fantasies where he squirms and writhes underneath him and John  _takes_ and  _takes_ and Sherlock gives him everything, god,  _everything._

Sherlock gasps when he comes, fingernails creating furrows in the wall, lips red and rough from biting them.

Later, the man is leaning against the wall next to Sherlock and is lighting his cigarette for him and he asks, "Who's John?" in Russian.

Sherlock's fingers freeze where they're holding the fag loosely, and he lifts his eyes to stare at him. "Who?" he asks.

The pale yellow light of the swinging bulb above them creates dancing shadows on Vlad's face. "You kept saying his name," he replied, eyes narrowing.

Sherlock stares at the cracks in the floor, the torn soles of his boots, wonders whether to lie or not say anything at all. He's stupid, so stupid, he doesn't want cretin like Vlad to be uttering John's name, to know anything about him at  _all,_ because John is precious and beautiful, and Sherlock wants to keep every piece of him close and curled up next to his heart. Shooting Vlad briefly crosses his mind, but he needs him now, and he won't get very far before the rest of the network finds him and kill him too.

"No one," he says instead, and exhales smoke.

Vlad nods and starts using his knife to clean his fingernails, and they're silent once more, and Sherlock feels like he's choking.

An hour later Vlad is dead and his blood is on Sherlock's shirt and three more people are dead under his hands, and he forgets about John for a moment. He revels in it. Revels in this feeling of being less than human, he doesn't have to be Sherlock now, all he is is a man with a gun and nothing to lose.

Even when he's tied to a wall and someone is ramming their fists repeatedly into his gut, or drawing a knife down his back or burying cigarette stubs in his skin, he thinks  _It doesn't matter, you can't really break what's already broken._

It gets worse and worse and Sherlock's body is just a sack of bones that he's carrying around and his head is full of snarls and screams and nightmares and he carries the smell of gunpowder everywhere he goes and in his ear

_Do you remember what sleep is_

_Which bone should I break now_

and

_why isn't he making any noise_

_must be dead_

He's alive, at least. He thinks. He can't really tell, and the thing is, he doesn't care anymore.

Sometimes he does stupid, suicidal things and he almost dies and he wants to kill himself again because it's all quite confusing.

_Inside his head a little music, inside his head a little hum. What he remembers_

_Doesn't make any sense._

He wants to die but then

_John_

And if he dies he can't go back to him-

-but John won't want him back then- probably not because Sherlock  _lies_ and  _lies_ and  _lies_ and John won't care that it was all to save him, to make sure that he keeps breathing because he is the most important thing in the entire universe and he needs to be protected and persevered and how is John ever going to understand that?

_I'm such an awful person and I've done such awful things and you make me feel good and deserving because you are kind and wonderful and I want you with a slow ache that consumes me whole and I_

Everything hurts.

Sherlock stumbles inside and he barely manages to close the door because he's bleeding out, all over the floor, knees hitting the floor hard- and it should be painful but there's agony bursting across his abdomen so he supposes he'd better concentrate on that instead but—

_Oh fucking god pain pain morphine where's the fucking morphine?_

He keeps a hand against his middle in a rudimentary method of keeping all that blood that's hitting the floor inside him, but it's really not that easy he needs  _bandages_ and  _iodine_ and  _morphine_ and he needs a  _doctor_ or else he's pretty sure he's going to die of blood loss.

_What he remembers has nothing to do with us_

_Or does it?_

Everything is fuzzy and Sherlock decides to curl up on the floor because

John is going to be fine without him and

He really doesn't mind this

Maybe someone will post the letters and

John will  _know_

Because it's of paramount importance that he should  _know_ that Sherlock loves him so much he can't breathe from the feeling of it, and it doesn't matter that he might not kiss him and

_All this circling around inside the darkened rooms inside_

_Those dreams of ours that never get used._

* * *

He wakes up feeling crusty and ill with a sour taste in his mouth and the devil of a headache.

There's a slow, steady  _beep beep beep_ somewhere, the only sound breaking the stillness. Sherlock opens his eyes and groans at the sunlight that seems to have a personal vendetta against him. He wonders if his head is going to crack open any time soon, it definitely feels like it.

"Oh, lovely, you're awake," someone says, and Sherlock groans again.

"What—why—" he manages to croak, opening one eye and trying to glare at his corpulent brother. "Go away," he finishes, and tries to sit up but there's heavy bandaging around his middle which restricts his movement. There's an IV attached to his hand and there's a blood bag above him, and the bed is stiff and lumpy. "Morphine," he rasps.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and puts down the paper he's reading. "Hmm. Yes, let's talk about that, shall we? I have your blood test right here," Mycroft is dressed casually in a light blue shirt and cargo pants and he looks less imposing and intimidating. His fingers tap impatiently on the arm of the wooden chair he's sitting on, and he looks expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock ignores him, choosing to look, instead, at the room he is in: small, neat, sunshine-yellow walls and an open window. Still in South America then. Explains Mycroft's attire.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock mutters, voice hoarse with sleep and disuse. He hasn't seen Mycroft in ages, the last time was six month ago when he needed help with a particularly tenacious assassin who refused to die. Mycroft looks paler and thinner (but Sherlock isn't going to  _tell_ him that), which is probably the only sign that he is not as well-put-together as he is trying to look.

"It's been long enough," Mycroft says, sighing. "Time for you to come home."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, letting the word wrap around him.

_Home with John and tea and jumpers and 221B and long nights in front of the fireplace and bullet riddled wallpaper and blue eyes and the steady, loyal presence of compact army doctor and the smell of danger and blood and home and formaldehyde and course blonde/brown/grey hair and—_

He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth and exhales loudly through his nose.

"I can't," he says, and tries not to tremble.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says gently, and it's been so long since Mycroft has used that tone of voice. It reminds Sherlock of skinned knees and broken bones and that little tree house in the backyard with the dead squirrel and warm chocolate milk. "You've done enough."

"No, you don't  _understand_ ," Sherlock says, and his voice is just short of hysterical. "I haven't eradicated the whole thing, I  _know,_ there are people left and it's not  _safe_ yet—"

" _Sherlock,_ " Mycroft says more forcefully, and this time he sounds more worried. "We can handle the rest of this competently, you've done the important—"

The clinical white sheets curl in his fingers and Sherlock finds it's getting a bit harder to breathe. "I—I don't think—Mycroft you don't understand, I can't go home, how can I go home like this—"

"Sherlock," he simply says, an edge of worry to his voice that wasn't there a second before and Sherlock nearly loses it. "Sherlock,  _breathe,_ " Mycroft tells him, and what an easy,  _convenient_ thing that would be, to just  _do what he is told to do but he cannot breathe right now._

"Myc—I—" his body is trembling, and fuck, not now, not  _here—_

Mycroft grabs his shoulders harder and turns him around forcefully so he can look at him, face pale and eyes wide. "Sherlock, listen to me. Breathe. Deep breaths. Look at me.  _Look at me."_

Sherlock looks at him but his body is still shaking and he can hear high pitched laughter in his ears, the hiss of a cigarette as its pressed into his skin, the  _drip drip drip_ of his own blood hitting the floor—gunshots—

"I am having a panic attack," he says, his voice surprisingly stable, nothing compared to the chaos inside of his head. He tries to let go of the sheets so he can hold onto Mycroft because he's warm and real and  _right there_ but he seems to be stuck.

"Yes," Mycroft agrees calmly, "Nothing to be worried about. Just breathe. Look at me, and take deep breaths. That's all you have to do. Don't think of anything else. Concentrate on me. That's it. Yes."

After about thirty seconds the trembling subsides and his heart rate is almost regular and he is aware of the sweat trickling down his neck and the grip Mycroft has on his shoulders.

"Oh stop coddling me," he snaps, and shrugs them off. Mycroft says nothing, simply raises an eyebrow and puts his hand in his lap.

"I can't go home right now," Sherlock says after a while, quietly.

"You  _can_ and you  _will,"_ Mycroft says, firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder, warm, grounding. Sherlock finds that he is still shaking. "Sherlock, you're a mess. You're of no help to us like this, look at yourself."

"I am  _perfectly capable—_ " Sherlock says, and his voice cracks.

"I know," Mycroft says, and the fingers on his shoulder tighten. "But don't you want to go home?"

_Home with John and tea and jumpers and Ms Hudson and warmth and safety and comfort_

Sherlock says nothing and stares down at his lap.

"He's a mess too, you know," Mycroft says softly. "I've never—he punched me the last time I went to see him."

Sherlock cracks a smile at that. "Did it bleed?" he asks.

"Profusely," Mycroft agrees, and Sherlock giggles.

"Is he..." Sherlock searches for a word. "...unhappy?"

"He is..." Mycroft shrugs. "You'll have to see for yourself."

Sherlock doesn't like the way he says it, it makes him worry. Certainly,  _certainly_ John cannot be as much of a mess as he is, of course not, John doesn't love Sherlock, not like  _that,_ obviously not this slow, burning want that makes him feel like his skin is stretched too tight over his body and makes his fingers shake and his lungs forget how to breathe.

"What's going on?" he asks.

Mycroft doesn't answer.

_***_

_He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There's a niche in his chest_

_Where a heart would fit perfectly_

_And he thinks if he could just manoeuvre one into place-_

_Well then, game over._

***

Sherlock had wanted to impress John Watson on the very first day they meet. He knew John wouldn't stay if he was boring. John was an army doctor and he smelled like danger and sand and blood and oh  _god,_ this small army doctor was a positive beacon of light in Sherlock's dark, dark life and he could feel his heart falling from his chest and right at John Watson's feet.

John had shot a serial killer for him  _on the very first day they met_ and Sherlock wanted to take him home and worship him. Sherlock felt  _alive_ and it had nothing to do with drugs. John was funny and clever and exciting, so exciting. Sherlock wanted to keep him like he had never wanted to keep anyone before.

_John, please stay. Please stay, I'm not boring and I know you're desperately unhappy and I can fix that for you, I can. Just come and live with me and I'll make you laugh and I'll give you something to live for I promise._

He took John out for dinner and he had to ransack his brain for interesting things to tell him, to keep him interested and to make him smile in that  _particular way of his._ He didn't do small talk. He had no idea what people did on...was this a date? No absolutely not. John was...well, he didn't like him  _like that_ and that was perfectly fine with Sherlock because neither was he, he just wanted this man in his life and if that meant telling him that embarrassing story about the squirrel who stole the apple pie, then so be it.

Later on Sherlock took him home and he really wanted to kiss him, he wanted to push him against the wall of the foyer and taste the wine on his lips or even get down on his knees, but that would certainly scare him away so instead they went upstairs and John made tea and they sat in front of the fire, and Sherlock continued telling him about crime and cases and he told him the embarrassing story about the squirrel again, because John found it funny and he laughed when he told it.

"Where did you get this skull from, anyway?" he asked, holding up the mentioned object in his hand and turning it over, looking at it suspiciously. He was a bit tipsy from all that wine, Sherlock observed and he found it  _adorable._

"Nicked it," Sherlock answers, taking the skull from him. His fingers brush John's. "But everyone assumes there's some fascinating story behind it, don't tell them." That elicited a surprised chuckle from John, and Sherlock noticed the faint pink in his cheeks.

"You're a real piece of work," he said, and then yawned enormously. "Right then. I'm off. Are you going to...sleep?" He trailed off on the last word like he was afraid Sherlock was going to do something much worse than sleep at night. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I don't sleep much," he answered, then shrugged. "Don't need it."

John raised his eyebrows. "Of course you need to sleep. Everyone needs to sleep." He frowned. "What do you do if you don't sleep?"

"There are a variety of activities far more exciting than  _sleeping,_ " Sherlock answered, and then walked back to his armchair to pick up his violin and bow. "For example."

"Oh, are you going to play, then?" John asked, suddenly perking up. "Can I...listen?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "What?" he asked, feeling his neck heat up under his collar.

John looked confused. "I mean...if you're going to play now, I'd, well, I'd like to listen? If that's alright with you?"

"I—I—I don't—" Sherlock started to stammer. He was being ridiculous. Why was he being ridiculous?  _Here's an opportunity to impress him, don't stand and babble like an idiot._ "Yes. Yes, of course. Is there anything in particular you'd like to hear?" He tuned the instrument, trying to ignore the heat flaming into his cheeks. He was being  _polite,_ and polite was boring, but he was feeling awkward and Sherlock always became polite when he was feeling awkward.

John laughed. "I'm not much into classical music, mate, just play what you play best and I'm sure I'll like it."

So Sherlock played him Bach and he refused to think he did that because he was feeling romantic and hopeful, no, definitely not. He didn't know how long he played but the fire burnt low and John fell asleep in his chair.

Sherlock spent ages debating what to do, staring at John's sleeping form and thinking  _there's going to be a crink in his neck_ and  _that can't be good for his shoulder_ and  _he looks very handsome_ but he finally decided not to wake him because he wanted to look at him for a bit longer so he got a blanket and draped it over his shoulders.

The next morning John didn't ask him about the blanket but he made him tea as soon as he woke up and asked him if he minded if he cooked them some breakfast.  _"How do you like your eggs?_ " he had asked.

Sherlock thought,  _I'll play a gazillion more concertos for you, you know, just so you could fall asleep to the sound of the music and I could listen to the sound of you breathing after that._

_***_

_You wonder what he's thinking when he shivers like that_

_What could you tell me, what could you possibly_

_Tell me? Sure, it's good to feel things, and if it hurts, we're doing it_

_To ourselves, or so the saying goes, but there should be_

_A different music here._

_***_

"Who is she?" he asked, holding the photograph with fingers that were shaking ever so slightly. He held it tighter to stop them from shaking, his voice firm and smooth.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms over his shoulder. "I don't know," he answered.

Sherlock laughs bitterly. "You always know."

"Relationships..." he grimaced. "Not my thing."

"Relationship?" Sherlock concentrated on a patch of wall above Mycroft's head. "Is that what they're in?" He straightened his perfectly straight collar to give his shaking fingers something to do.

"I assume you're going to...drop in," Mycroft finished off delicately. "You can ask him yourself."

"There's the slightest possible chance I won't be wanted, though," Sherlock says in reply. The woman in the picture is pretty; blonde and demure and female and disgustingly  _normal._ Sherlock feels vaguely ill and he crushes the urge to run to the washroom and vomit until there's nothing left in his stomach.

They're holding hands and John is holding a cup of coffee in one hand and he looks older, paler, care-worn. He looks  _sad._ He's smiling in the picture, though, smiling at Mary and Sherlock decides  _jealousy_ is too petty a word to articulate what he is feeling now; this all consuming, burning urge to rip the photograph in two and fourths and eighths until the evidence that John Watson doesn't care anymore for him is in bits and pieces at his feet.  _He smiles at me like that,_ he thinks.  _That-that smile—that should be for me. Not for you. You scarcely know him at all. Not like I do._

"It's been two years," Mycroft sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. "He's moved on, Sherlock. Surely you don't begrudge him for that. What did you expect him to do? Sit on that chair in 221B and wait for your dead body to rise up out of the ground?"

Sherlock imagines leaning over and closing his hands over Mycroft's neck and squeezing. He screws his eyes shut and lets out a frustrated breath, the photograph twisting in his grip. "I don't expect you to understand," he spits, and then turns around and stomps out of his office, pulling his coat tighter around him as if that will prevent the icy cold spreading in his bones.

Sherlock steps outside and tries to fold all that horrible, sickening, sentimental  _feeling_ and stuff it into a chest inside his head, padlocking it and then grinding the key to dust.

 _He'll want you back,_ he reminds himself.  _Just not like_ that,  _and it's not like you ever expected it anyway._

No, he agrees, staring at the darkening sky and wondering whether it was a good idea to come back after all.

***

_There should be just one safe place_

_In the world. I mean_

_This world. People get hurt here. People fall down and stay_

_Down and I don't like_

_The way the song goes._

_***_

Sherlock smokes a whole pack of cigarettes while he's waiting for the perfect moment to walk up to John and tell him that he's come back. What would he say?

_Not dead?_

Sounds a bit of an understatement, really, but boiled down to the absolute truth. John would appreciate the logic of it, he thinks. The cigarette trembles in his hands. With a sigh of frustration he drops it and crushes it underneath his foot, choosing to lean against the lamp post and glare at the perfect suburban little house John is living in right now with that hateful woman with the curvy figure and the blonde hair and those laughing blue eyes—

_Stop._

He can't though, not really, he imagines John with her at this moment, laughing at something she said, pushing her hair back from her face and leaning in and pressing his mouth against hers—

They're fucking, surely. Fiercely heterosexual John would obviously not pass up on this opportunity. Sherlock clenches his fists so hard they form red crescents against his palms and he wants to scream and tear his hair out because he hates  _feeling_ so much it's so  _inconvenient_ and why is he so  _jealous_ because he had already accepted long ago that John was never going to want him  _that_ so why was he even bloody  _trying—_

He decides so many times to go back, he can't do this, can't.  _Knowing_ that John has moved on is painful enough when seen through flimsy pictures but the proof of it is solid and real before his very eyes and this is more than  _pain._ This is something he can't explain in words. This is something that makes him want to return and hide in Siberia again, letting someone beat him to a pulp, because he never expected to live long anyway, and surely that would hurt less than  _this._

He goes, though, thinking of mummy and what she would say if she knew what he was doing right now.  _You have to be brave, dear. When you find something you want to keep, you must try very hard to keep it._ Granted, at the time she had said it they were talking about a disembodied cat paw he had dissected himself that Mycroft was threatening to take away, but the analogy held fast.

It feels almost silly to go upstairs to their flat and stand in front of that freshly painted white door and knock on the door. It feels ridiculous. Sherlock almost runs away but then a short, blonde haired, curvy woman opens the door and he stares at her instead.

"Hello," she says, trying to look polite as she squints her eyes in an attempt to recognise him. She doesn't, not immediately. He's glad for it.

"Hello," he replies. "Can I come in? Is John home?"

She opens and closes her mouth several times, before saying, "Um, yeah, but who are you?" He has to like her. He  _has_ to. John likes her and she likes John and by extension they should all like each other, even if it is for the soul purpose of John's happiness. So he exhales and tries to be very calm and says, "John knows me, it's imperative that I meet him right now. I'm not a serial killer or a thief, Ms. Morstan, could you please let me in?"

She seems surprised that he knows her name, but she opens the door wider for him anyway.  
"Well, alright," she acquiescences, and Sherlock steps inside their flat.

 _Flowers._ There are  _flowers._ In a  _vase._ Paintings on the wall. Everything is light and bright, feminine, Mary's presence palpable everywhere and Sherlock can't imagine how John isn't desperately unhappy within these four walls.

He feels very silly indeed, standing in the middle of their sitting room with Mary asking him if he'd like some  _tea_ as if he's some sort of  _guest_ and Sherlock can't imagine why on earth John would marry this woman. He's about to tell her that the only tea he enjoys is tea that has been made by John when he hears a very distinct voice call out, "Mary, who is it? Need me to come?" and everything inside of Sherlock twists uncomfortably.

"Um, yes, I suppose, there's someone who wants to—I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" she busies herself in the kitchen somewhere, the sound of running water and clang of pots and pans filling the room, even though Sherlock remembers that he hadn't told her that he wanted tea. He doesn't answer her question, instead tries to control his rapid heart rate and—

He hears footsteps and turns around from the horrid painting he was looking and, comes face to face with John who is staring at him with a very peculiar expression on his face.

Sherlock can't help but stare back at him, because how did he not realise how  _beautiful_ John Watson was? He had forgotten the exact colour of his eyes, he thinks, because 'blue' was definitely not what it was. His hair was almost grey now, his face more lined, tired, but still so inexplicably  _John_ that Sherlock is unable to breathe for a few moments.

John is still staring at him. Sherlock starts to open his mouth when John raises a hand to silence him. "I'm—I'm dreaming again, aren't I?" he whispers, half to himself. "Fuck, I thought this was over," he scrapes a hand over his face.

"John, have you met—" she steps into the room, tray in her hands, tea and  _biscuits._ What on earth is John's life now? She looks rapidly from Sherlock to John, who seems to be having some sort of a nervous breakdown right there in the living room.

"John, what's going—"

John looks up at her and gapes. "Tea. Who's the tea for? I didn't ask for—"

"For him," she juts her chin towards Sherlock. "Really, you're being rude—"

"Him?" John's voice shakes as he turns towards Sherlock. "You—you can see him too?"

Mary looks confused. "Of course I can—" then the expression morphs into something akin to horror. "Oh my god." The tray falls.  _Smash._ China and tea and crumbled biscuits everywhere. Mary's perfectly manicured fingernails fly to her mouth. John turns to him rapidly and everything is a blur for the next five seconds and then John's fingers are curled tightly into his collar and he slams him hard against the nearest wall and Sherlock gasps from impact, the sudden movement probably ripping open the stitches in his back.

"You fucking  _bastard,_ " John seethes.

"John—" Sherlock starts, but that's all he can say before there is hard, blinding force against his cheekbone as knuckles meet skin and Sherlock goes stumbling over the nearest little coffee table, knocking a lamp over.

"John!" Mary shouts, running over to him. Sherlock can't see what's happening because he's on his knees on the floor, faintly aware of flaring pain against his back and across his chest and a bit of blood welling up in a cut on his lip.

"You— _you,_ " John is spluttering, and Sherlock looks up then, to say  _sorry,_ something,  _anything_ to prevent John from hitting him again, even though it is perhaps what he deserved. John is breathing hard, hair falling into his eyes from his exertion, Mary attempting valiantly to hold him back from Sherlock. "How could you— _two fucking years, Sherlock!"_

"John, I—" the attempt to stand up to have this inevitable conversation is too much, so he settles for kneeling on the maroon carpet and looking up at John. "I admit jumping on you like this is a bit rude—"

John starts laughing. Hysterically.

"Bit rude. Bit  _rude,_ he says," he looks at Mary as if he expects her to laugh along with him, but Mary looks extremely frightened at the moment. She holds on tighter to John as if she thinks he's going to fly at Sherlock again.

"John, why don't we—" she starts to say, but John wrenches away from her and then pulls Sherlock up with a, "Oh get off the fucking floor," and there isn't a trace of fondness or amusement in his tone, it's an alien, strange thing, his voice right now. Cold and hard and nothing like what john would usually sound like when he spoke to Sherlock.

"John, listen—"

"I am  _done_ listening to you," he roars, picking the vase off the floor and hurling it at the wall. More broken china. The sound makes Mary gasp but Sherlock just swallows and stares at the carnage around them, not able to look up at John's face because it hurts too much. "Two years.  _Two years._ " He brings his voice to a harsh whisper on the last two words. "I—do you have  _any fucking idea_ what those two years were like, for me?" He pokes his finger, hard, against Sherlock's chest to emphasize his point.

"I—"

" _No you fucking don't!"_ he yells. "I was a mess, a mess, you fucking  _arsehole,_ I—I—" he turns away from him then, hands flying to his hair, shoulders shaking. "Get him out of here," he tells Mary. "Get him  _out._ "

Mary looks at Sherlock, wide eyed, lips pursed. Sherlock has no idea what to do. This is not how he thought it would go. He never expected John to welcome him with open arms, but he supposed—he supposed—well, he supposed John would be  _happy_ to see him—

"John, please—"

John marches away from the sitting room as if he can't bear to hear another word from Sherlock and then the sudden noise of a door closing shut reverberates throughout the entire room. The sound of it vibrates inside Sherlock's skull, and he finally gives in to the urge to lean against the door and take a few deep breaths.

"Well," Mary says after a beat. "That went well."

Sherlock shifts his gaze to look at her. Mary looks back at him and sighs. "So you're Sherlock," she says.

Sherlock looks at her as if she's gone mad.

"Right, stupid question," she runs a hand through her blonde hair. "I'm sorry about how that went," she says quietly. "But you—you haven't seen him. He looks okay now, but," she shakes her head. "I'm not surprised at all." She looks down at the brown tea that is now seeping into the carpet.

Almost a minute passes before Sherlock says anything. "I should leave. I apologise for—well." He shrugs.

Mary cracks a lopsided smile and sidesteps the tea and china to open the door for him. "I'll speak to him."

He wipes away some of the blood collecting under his nose. "You will?" he stares at her questioningly.

Cold air is blowing into the flat from the open door. She leans against the frame, crossing her arms. "For a long time," she starts, looking down at her feet. "I thought that he...well. The way he was. When you were gone. I've seen friends grieve for friends, but John...not quite like that." She reaches into the pocket of her jeans and extracts a handkerchief, handing it to Sherlock. He takes it, using it for mopping away the blood. "He'll speak to you, again. Eventually. Just give him some time."

"Thank you," he tells her, the words odd and unused in his mouth. "For taking care of him."

He leaves then, unable to take her pity and her sympathy and the disgustingly kind look in her eyes. He hates that she's being  _nice_ to him and  _implying_ things that never had any potential. He hates that John and her are a team now, hates that he told  _her_ to get rid of him as if he can't do that task himself. He steps out into the cold, brisk hair, breathing in the scent of rain and mud and earth, staring at the sky for the longest time, before turning his steps towards Baker Street, contemplating a cold, empty, John-less flat. He will be alone again now, he thinks. John and Mary, domestic bliss, living together in their lovely little home, fucking and working together, Sunday dinners, picnics, walks in Regent Park. Sherlock will eventually fade into the background, a washed out, faded adventure story that John will think of once in a while, before he turns to Mary and smiles at her and then forgets all about him.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come back, after all.

***

_You, the moon. You, the road. You, the little flowers_

_By the side of the road. You keep singing along to that song_

_I hate. Stop singing._

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you have any questions, complaints, or you're just in the mood for a chat, feel free too message me on [my tumblr.](http://subtext-is-my-division.tumblr.com/)


End file.
